


Wild Night

by atthis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atthis/pseuds/atthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock accepts a gift from Mycroft. John is wild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluffy first-time pwp.  
> This incarnation of the characters belongs to the BBC. I’m borrowing them for science.

"Boring." Sherlock pronounces loudly, his tone condemning the day, the flat, the whole of London; indeed the entire Universe, what with its certain vapid bits endlessly rotating ‘round other equally insipid ones.

_"Bored."_

From his chair, John glances at the long figure sprawled over the sofa, and struggles to contain a sigh. It's been like this for ages – or so it seems, although in truth they wrapped up their latest case only two days ago. Ironically, John muses, a bored Sherlock Holmes is anything but boring; in particular: exhausting, exasperating, and exceptionally and excessively vexing.

"D'you know you're wild?"

John is startled by the seemingly random accusation.

"I’m wild?" he frowns. "In what way?"

"Your _Wilde_ , John – Oscar Wilde." Sherlock clarifies impatiently.

Of course they're discussing Modern literature now. Obvious.

"Er, somewhat." John has read Wilde at Uni, sure.

"Mycroft has sent tickets. Tonight at the National."

"Oh." John is mildly surprised. He waits a moment, but apparently nothing else is forthcoming.

"Did you want to go, then?"

"Why else would I bring it up? I need a distraction, and Wilde can be..."

"Entertaining?" John offers. “Fun?”

Sherlock hums. "At the least, not _hopelessly_ dull," he corrects.

John fails to hide a grin.

"Alright, then."

 

John enjoys the play. The production is excellent ("competent," Sherlock allows), and Wilde is uproariously funny, and subtly devastating in parts. John feels a little uneasy in his formal dress at first. He hasn’t worn this suit since before Afghanistan. But it seems to fit him well enough again. And London is exciting somehow tonight, even sans rooftop chases.

They take a cab home – the tickets didn’t come with one of Mycroft’s chauffeured black cars this time. Sherlock is looking out the window, casually observing, and giving John an opportunity to observe him in turn.

Not for the first time tonight, John notes how Sherlock looks almost praeternaturally handsome in his precise dinner jacket. John’s eyes linger on the sharpness of Sherlock’s cheek-bone and the paleness of his eye, on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

_‘Breathing is boring.’_

John knows a lot about breathing.

He knows the anatomy of trachea, bronchi, bronchioles, alveoli; the physiology of diaphragm and thoracic muscles pulling, expanding the pleural space, forcing air into the lung, and then back out again; even the intricacies of innervation, responsible for the impulse to take the next breath, that will not be denied.

He knows the soft spongy feel of live lung tissue under his fingertips, and is all too familiar with the sensation of a bullet just missing the apex of one’s own left superior lobe.

But Sherlock likes facts, and viscera, and battle, John muses. Would he find John’s breathing dull?

 

John pays the cabbie, while Sherlock is already through the door and halfway up the steps.

John realises not a word has been spoken between them during the drive. And while this is not in itself unusual, there is no urgent case currently on Sherlock's mind, no obvious cause for his silence.

He follows Sherlock into their sitting room, his mind turning to the pleasant prospect of trading his moderately posh garb for the comfort of his oldest, softest jumper.

But he doesn't get that far.

Sherlock turns to him – turns _on_ him – with a dramatic maneuver that looks like a cross between a karate move and a ballet twirl. He is suddenly very close, and very tall, and John feels his breath hitch in his throat.

Not boring at all.

 

" _John,_ " Sherlock near-whispers, and John can swear he's never before heard his own admittedly ordinary name sound so extraordinary.

Sherlock's arms reach out slowly, large delicate palms coming to rest on either side of John's waist, over his suit jacket, but under his coat. The usual black leather gloves are somehow gone by now, and John can feel the warmth of flesh through his clothing.

He looks up into his friend's strange blue-grey eyes, where he can raptly observe the colour palette of ice and frost impossibly, alchemically mix with fire.

"Why?" John finds it hard to talk, but he needs to know. "Why now? You’re married to your work, yeah? Am I... Is this your mistress, then? Another distraction?"

John sees suddenly with perfect clarity that, were this the case, it wouldn't be enough for him. He watches as the familiar crinkle forms in that fascinating space between Sherlock's eyebrows.

"No," Sherlock breathes, pauses, and his eyes are looking inward, as for once he seems to be deducing himself. John smiles at the rare sight, and his hands are rising of their own accord, resting momentarily on Sherlock's shoulders, smoothing down his chest. He wants to remove his friend’s clothes, unwrap him like a present. He wants to put his fingers in those soft-looking curls, and pull those perfect lips down to his. He wants-

 

"More than that," Sherlock's eyes are looking down at him now. "You are so much more than a distraction. John, you are…"

He pauses searchingly, and John is reminded of his friend's inexperience with ‘emotions’, as it leaves him without words for what he feels.

"Not boring?" John offers, to lighten the mood.

The look of concentration-turned-frustration on Sherlock's face shatters at once, as he huffs and grins. "Precisely."

He looks so pleased with himself, pleased with John for his clever deduction, that John cannot bear to wait another second.

Pulling Sherlock down to him, he latches on to his smiling lips to finally kiss him properly; which, right at this moment, seems to mean to properly devour his warm, gorgeous mouth.

Sherlock's long arms wrap around him, pressing him close, and the surge of sensation when they make full-body contact is positively electric.

Someone makes an undignified noise, John can't say which one, but it hardly seems to matter, as the mere reverberation of it turns his knees into a substance apparently possessing the consistency of rice pudding.

Bed, he thinks urgently, and tries to say it, tries to think. Where do they keep the bed? He can't recall.

He can't seem to recall ever _wanting_ this much.

 

But suddenly Sherlock is pulling away from the kiss, and falling to his knees, and John remembers. They are in the middle of the sitting room, and John's bed is upstairs, and _Oh!_ If Sherlock doesn't stop that right now, they'll never make it there.

"Wait!" He warns, and Sherlock freezes, sitting back from where he's been nuzzling at John's crotch. Looking down, John is a bit surprised to find his trousers unfastened, his erection all but pushing its own way through the soft cotton of his pants.

Those striking eyes are looking up at him now, passion and worry reflected in them in equal measure. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John assures him, "Nothing’s wrong. I just thought we might move this to a bedroom? It'd be more comfortable."

Sherlock seems to approve of the plan, and is quick to rise back to his feet and lead John up the stairs. "Beetle experiment," he nods by way of explanation, in the direction of his own room.

John hums in agreement, as if there were nothing unusual about this; and he has to admit that the presence of various live members of the Coleoptera order in Sherlock's bedroom is the least unusual thing about tonight.

"Comparing decomposition and consumption rates," Sherlock goes on, and John finds the unsolicited detail strangely reassuring in its normality.

"Fascinating," he nods, concentrating on maneuvering them both towards his room, while at the same time loosening Sherlock's bow tie and starting work on his many tiny buttons. There's a particular spot on Sherlock's throat that John really needs to get his mouth on. And _soon_.

When he finally does, he can feel the responding moan against his lips, and it makes him suck harder. Which in turn makes Sherlock moan even louder, thus establishing a rather pleasing feedback loop.

John pauses on the landing to admire the purpling mark he's left on Sherlock's pale skin, and he's never seen anything more beautiful. But then someone makes an impatient growling sound, and they promptly find themselves inside John's bedroom.

Sherlock takes a step back and is quickly undressing himself, discarding expensive silk and bespoke wool on the worn carpet.

John reaches for the seemingly glowing yards of newly-revealed skin, but is stopped short by an instruction to remove his own clothes first. "Faster that way," Sherlock explains, a little too calmly. "I want us to be naked."

John only nods, and disrobes with military efficiency. He can appreciate the obvious advantages of a utilitarian approach, over either romantic fumbling or a teasing performance – advantages which might be neatly summarised by the words 'naked' and 'fast'.

 

And then they are.

John watches Sherlock's gaze first, which is noticing him with every bit of Sherlock's usual quick, unabashed thoroughness. John can't help but shiver under the scrutiny, and he hurries to distract him by stepping closer again, and initiating another kiss while guiding him backwards to the bed.

It works admirably, as gravity cooperates to land him soundly on top of a warm, naked, and very _hard_ Sherlock. And it’s everything John wants, maybe everything he’s ever wanted, but he can’t stop wanting more.

He spares a second for logistic considerations, but this is not the time for anything overly ambitious. And John does hold a particular fondness for the classics.

He spits into his left palm, and reaches down between their bodies, taking both their straining lengths together in his hand.

There’s gasping, and grinding, and dizzyingly delicious friction, and it doesn’t last long at all, and it’s utterly perfect. Their mouths are pressed together when Sherlock reaches his peak, not really kissing, but panting into each other, and John swallows a sound reminiscent of his own name, just before he joins Sherlock there.

 

For long moments after, they lie on John’s small bed, breathing together. There’s a bit of a mess, and John reaches for a box of tissues on his nightstand.

Suddenly a laughing snort escapes him.

“What?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, sounding almost normal again.

“It’s just,” John turns to grin at his friend, “I guess tonight has been pretty wild after all.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wild(e) bit blatantly plagiarised, with apologies, from John Finnemore’s brilliant Cabin Pressure.  
> Comments and criticism most welcome.


End file.
